


songs we sang on our mother's grave

by orphan_account



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Sibling Incest, fmab canon-compliant but i ignored the epilogue, i love florence and the machine okay, if you needed that tag are you even in this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-14 02:22:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11198457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: But his mouth is a dance of wanting and his hands are sinful on Alphonse’s torso and around his waist and nearly, nearly under his skin, tracing the only circles he knows that ask for nothing in exchange, and it is impossible to believe him when there is nothing to be sorry for.-Restoration, and after.





	songs we sang on our mother's grave

**Author's Note:**

> i love the elric brothers together with all my heart. more than just being 'that incest pairing', i think that their circumstances place them, very organically, as individuals not foreign to sin or taboo, and whose lives revolve so concretely around each other that, frankly speaking, fma:b endgame was thoroughly unrealistic.  
> in this sense their dynamic is something that is very important to me and which i want to explore, so: this is one take on how it might go. i hope you enjoy.

“Am I your blood,” Alphonse is saying, sweet in the hollows of Edward’s neck, hands trailing down his arms to twine with fingers, finally all flesh.

“Brother,” he whispers, voice cracking against the planes of Edward’s cheek, pressing their noses together briefly, desperately. At the edge of the instant, he turns his head to place no more than a peck at the corner of pliant lips.

“I,” soft, “I miss our mother,” and Alphonse, beautiful darling Alphonse, is crying now, pressing full and heavy against Edward, still-new fingers unable to let go.

Edward closes his eyes, thinks about an ocean of kindness. Could she have forgiven? His sibling, again his flesh and blood, burns against his skin, his own eyes closing from the too-much-too-hot-too-fast. It takes a moment before he can trust himself to open them again.

“Me too,” he breathes, gentle. “Me too.”

-

_ (this is a gift, it comes with a price) _

-

It takes Al a moment to realise he’s back. One moment it was Gate and falling, breathless with longing, back into his own body, and the next all he knew was that he was no longer in that boundless prison of light.

Until he  _ felt _ something, somewhere in the region of what must surely be his head, and he felt  _ more _ , soft pricks of sensation clustered where his vision should be, and then he remembered eyelids, which opened to reveal Ed, eyes glistening, and that was his brother’s grip supporting him, now, his  _ brother’s _ tears that were falling on what he was remembering was his face.

_ But if I’m here _ , he thought,  _ then Brother -  _

Wildly, fiercely, he lashes out at Ed’s face, feels the burn in his fragile wrist boiling up to match the one dancing behind his eyes. Then Ed had paid - had paid what? -  _ what had he paid? _

“H-hey! Al!” Ed is holding his fist, inches from his face. His voice is cracking a little, and his eyes are shinier than usual. “A ‘thank you’ would be enough, ya know?” The hand around his is warm, tingly, and instinctively he twists his so foreign fingers link with Ed’s. His grip feels desperate, impossibly tight, though it leaves no impression on tan skin.

“Brother,” he urges, voice lodging awkwardly in his throat. Dimly, he recalls having another arm, which he brings up to cradle the side of that lovely, familiar face. “Brother,” he repeats, wondrous, afraid, tracing the fine lines spiderwebbing soft skin. “Brother, what…”

He has to take a pause to swallow before continuing, now unused to the tasks of breathing and swallowing and speaking all at once. It’s in this window that Ed’s bright gold eyes - always, he’d thought since he was a child, far more captivating than his own - widen, in realisation, and he’s robbed of any chance to pursue the matter.

“Shh,” his brother is saying, smoothing a hand - flesh, still, he can’t wrap his mind around it - over his forehead. “You haven’t eaten for  _ years _ , c’mon, let’s get you out of here.”  _ Years _ is accented with an exaggerated eye roll, as if it were mere hyperbole and not ugly truth. Al bites on his curiosity, offers up a watery smile instead.

“It better be good,” he jokes back, pretending not to see the brief way Ed’s gaze shutters when he lifts him, realises he weighs almost nothing. “I’m  _ starving _ .”

-

Though Ed fights tooth and nail, the Colonel insists Al spends at least a week in the hospital, just so they can monitor his vitals, assist him immediately if anything happens. It is, he smirks, a favour. The older Elric acquiesces not because the bastard might have a point - he would sooner die than fail Al again - but because a set of soft brown eyes to the right of that smarmy face are quietly imploring him to just accept.

_ Goddamned Mustang. What’d he do to deserve the loyalty of someone like Hawkeye, anyway? _

If they won’t let him keep Al out of their military claws, Ed decides, he can at least control who gets to see him. Ed issues a strict edict that  _ nobody _ is allowed in to see Alphonse in that first week, not even Winry or Granny. He doesn’t want them stressing him out, doesn’t want their germs getting everywhere, and besides, they have the rest of his life to hang out with him. This time is Ed’s.

The Colonel, apparently bent on chalking Ed up in red, assigns Riza as their sole guard for the week. She’s exchanged her usual military shift for hours spent outside Al’s hospital door, Ed understands, because while the dust settles it pays to be careful.

He’s grateful for the company, anyhow. Al sleeps a lot, those first few days, talking or moving taking a heavy toll on him. Ed fusses, gets scolded, tries to fuss less, and gets laughed at quietly for how dead a giveaway his expression is, even when he’s keeping his hands to himself and not pushing Al’s hair out of the way or attempting to feed him or bringing him a dozen puzzles to play with.

It’s ass o’clock on the third day when he pokes his head out and sees the Lieutenant standing there, looking as alert as if it had been the middle of the afternoon. Ed’s worn, but can’t allow himself to sleep, too entranced by the way moonlight falls on Al’s face, turns him surreal.

“Major,” she acknowledges immediately, snapping into a first-rate salute. Ed eyes her three visible guns, wonders again why someone like her is a whole two ranks below a dumbass kid like himself. 

“Lieutenant Hawkeye,” he replies, returning the salute customarily before uncomfortably scratching the back of his head. His braid is beginning to feel a little knotty, and truth be told he’s aching himself. “Ed is fine. Titles weird me out.”

“Very well, Edward,” she allows, and her smile when she drops the salute is warm. “Please call me Riza. Was there something you required?”

Ed feels a sudden childish need for her approval. It’s been a rough few days, he’s tired, and the concern with which she’s regarding him reminds him of … of Mom. He thinks, faintly, that the lack of food and sleep must be making him woozy. “No, I just… D’you wanna come in?” He clears his throat, appends, “...Riza?”

She blinks, clearly not expecting the famously stubborn Edward Elric, of all people, to allow him into their Elric-only sanctuary. It’s a privilege, she understands immediately, and the flushed way he’s avoiding her gaze reminds her that despite all his exploits, the boy before her is barely sixteen. 

“I’d love to,” she says, smiling properly, and can’t quite help the way her hand reaches out, of its own accord, to ruffle blond hair just a shade warmer than her own.

-

_ (sing it out, Lord - who made us this way?) _

-

With Riza across the room, Ed finally lets himself sleep. He curls up feline in an armchair, deep in slumber; tucked neatly into the square lines of hospital upholstery, he looks far too small to have carried what he has.

A scant few hours later, however, Alphonse jolts out of sleep, voice wild and catching on the fledgling shafts of daylight filtering in through half-drawn curtains.  _ I owe you nothing _ , he’s begging, bargaining,  _ We owe you nothing.  _ Pallid hands are clawing at matted hair, pushing at air.  _ He’s my - no - Brother -! _

Frozen, Riza has barely assessed the situation before Ed is bolting out of his chair, eyes feral-bright with fear and something else she can’t quite locate. Then his hands, honest flesh, are cupping Al’s head protectively, curling his younger brother into his chest, chin pressed to rest. He’s mumbling something, now, rocking the two of them to and fro slowly, voice scratching low and rhythmic to keep greedy shadows at bay.

In the dim light, Riza averts her gaze, suddenly bashful, feeling - no, _knowing_ that she has intruded upon something very intimate.

-

By the time Riza is back with bread from a bakery some walk away from the hospital, the brothers look more  _ themselves _ again, ugly fear tucked beneath the hospital corners of Al’s bed. She lets herself in with a quiet knock, and takes her time with her back to the bed so that when she does look up, there is no vulnerability, only two slightly tired siblings smiling in her general direction.

“I got you bread,” she says, if unnecessarily, and sets about brewing cocoa, well aware it would be one of the first things Alphonse Elric consumed as a restored human. She’s rewarded with a brilliant smile from the younger brother, which quickly morphs into a peal of delighted laughter - glancing up, it’s there again, that almost-private look. She doesn’t wonder.

“Brother - brother is a heathen who will have to kindly refuse your cocoa,” Al supplies, through slowly subsiding giggles. Good humour lights up his face - he is a beautiful child, despite the emaciation from the Gate. It is nigh impossible to blame his brother for the way his golden eyes light on that smile, distracted enough to miss his cue to rant about milk.

_ Far be it from me to pass judgment.  _ Riza doesn’t press, turning instead to get a teabag out of the well-stocked room cabinet and beginning a brew. “I’m afraid it’ll be tea, then; I’ve heard it said that coffee stunts your growth.”

This time, Ed leaps upon the provocation, launching into a spiel about not being a  _ bean so small he can’t even be used to brew half decent coffee _ . Again, laughter fills the room, bright and warm; the Lieutenant cannot help but notice the soft tenderness unabashed on the younger Elric’s face. 

Unbidden, she finds herself making a silent petition, to whomever - God, Truth, the World itself - to  _ please, just let them have this _ .

-

After that first week, the Elrics retreat - not into the Rockbell house - but into a hotel room in Central, the whereabouts of which is something of a military secret. Riza returns to the command of a newly promoted Brigadier-General, and, though she  _ knows  _ he can tell she has gained one more secret, does not speak of what she saw.

-

_ (all this devotion, rushing over me) _

-

Al is curled up in their hotel bed with a book, content in reading a fairytale, tracing the words on the paper with his infant fingers, remembering what it is like to have eyes. Ed is still unable to believe that he is here, alive, warm again, and wondrously whole.

He gives his hair one last half-hearted wring, sets down the towel and pads over to the bed to sit down. When Al barely even acknowledges his presence, he snorts in irritation and extricates the book from between his brother’s hands, generously using the nearest piece of paper to mark the page before setting it down gently on the dresser. 

“Heey,” Al whines, half-heartedly, turning to sling his arms around Ed’s waist and nuzzle into the junction of neck and collar. “Brother, I was reading that.” He’s clingy, since restoration, but Ed isn’t one to complain when he gets what he’s worked for.  _ Brother, I want to touch you again _ . He brings a hand up to thread through Al’s deep gold hair.

“I know,” he quips lazily, “turn around, will you? Wanna braid your hair.” Contradictory, he continues running his hands idly through soft locks, enjoying the way he can do it without the fear of his automail catching and hurting Al. He’s rewarded with a happy hum against his collarbone, a soft sigh following before Al gently pulls away and turns back around, sitting flush against Ed’s crossed legs.

“Don’t rip any of it out, okay?” Al chirps, leaning back far enough to prop his head up entirely on Ed’s shoulder. The angle makes his eyes wide and exceedingly earnest, the force of his focus heavy. Ed swallows around the sudden weight in his throat, tips Al’s head away with a casual nonchalance he does not feel.

“Tch.” Grateful for the reprieve, Ed focuses on separating the hair into three even portions, and begins to braid it neatly. It’s easy, the memory having been burned into his muscles years prior, but he takes his time, tugging gently to ensure a perfect tension as he expertly weaves the segments in and out. 

A comfortable silence settles, until Al breaks it. “Brother,” he says softly, “We should see Winry soon.”

Ed’s hands still midway through the braid. Al’s hair is long, nearly mid-waist, and so gentle to the touch. “Don’t wanna,” he mumbles.

“She sent us a letter.” Al’s tone is just shy of reproving. “Again.” He would’ve replied earlier, if only he could currently do more with a pen than just hold it.

“Mm?” Ed’s hands are continuing their task, and he almost manages to sound like he isn’t listening. “Where?”

“ _ Brother _ .” Al is definitely annoyed now. “You used it as a bookmark.”

“Did I, now.” He’s reached the end of Al’s hair, and carefully ties up the end. “Didn’t notice.” Childishly, Ed starts to play with the braid, pulling gently at sections to tousle the hair.

“ _ Bro-ther _ !” Al whips around fast enough that the end of the braid thuds lightly against Ed’s chest, fisting hands lightly in his shirt and falling half into his lap in frustration. “What’s  _ up _ with you? Don’t you  _ like _ Winry?” 

He doesn’t know why, but he’s shaking a little bit, hands twisting for a more secure hold. He jostles Ed a tad roughly. “Why does it feel like you’re avoiding her?” Winry is, first and foremost, their childhood friend, and has doubtless been worried sick. Softer, but just as angrily, he adds “....it’s been  _ weeks _ .”

_ Why, indeed _ . Ed squeezes his eyes shut, one hand coming to rest on where Al is gripping on to him. A sudden melancholy stills him, and when he exhales, it is accompanied by a shaky laugh. 

“I just… I guess I. I’m just not ready to give it up,” he admits, after a pause. “Not yet.”

Al relaxes, if only out of confusion. “Brother?... Give  _ what _ up?” And then, memory jogged, “Wait, you still haven’t told me what you gave u-”

One moment Ed is regarding him, half-lidded and almost drunken with some inexplicable dejection, and the next Al is crushed in an embrace, his brother’s lips pressed gently to his temple. “I can’t,” Ed whispers into his skin, regretful, “Can’t give you up, yet.” 

Al cannot breathe for proximity, his heart beating a loud staccato against the flow of his reason. “What do you mean, Brother?” he manages weakly, mind swimming with  _ maybes  _ that he’s afraid to touch, desperate for confirmation. “It’s just Winry and Granny. I’ll still be with you, right?” The light pressure is burning a hole into his temple. 

“Will you?” 

He waits for the full question, heart begging to be rid of his chest.

“Will…” He has never heard Ed sound so afraid. The hands on his shoulders are shaking. “Al, will you let me -”

It is an impossible thing to watch Ed struggle any further, when he already  _ knows _ . “Yes,” he allows, although it comes out far closer to a plea. “Yes.” He breathes. “Please.”

He takes charge, himself, knowing his brother's greatest fear is hurting him. Failing him. Alphonse slips his too-small hands out from under Edward’s, linking them loosely behind his neck. “Please,” he presses again, more desperately now, nose nudging urgently along the terrain of his brother’s cheek, leading their mouths to meet.

The instant is heavy with longing, and Alphonse presses insistently against warm, soft lips, as if doing so, instead of making him greedier, could soothe the gaping maw that has opened in his chest. A trickle of moisture slips down his face; somehow, without his consent, tears have begun to fall.

“Al,” Edward says in the heated space between them, half pulling away, half pushing feverishly closer. “I'm sorry.” 

But his mouth is a dance of wanting and his hands are sinful on Alphonse’s torso and around his waist and nearly, nearly under his skin, tracing the only circles he knows that ask for nothing in exchange, and it is impossible to believe him when there is nothing to be sorry  _ for _ .

“Don't you  _ dare _ be,” Alphonse hisses, furious, moaning wanton at a feverish nuzzle to his neck, placing crazed open-mouthed kisses to any skin he can reach. “Don't you  _ dare _ .” His arms are pinned to the bed, now, bronze hair a bold halo around his saint’s face. “I love you - more than anything,” he gasps, eyes aflutter, himself now a confessional.

Edward smiles, slow and regretful, taking what he dares and giving Alphonse all of the rest. “It has always been you,” he breathes, and in that tiny world, there is left no other truth to be found.

-

_ (like the stars chase the sun) _

-

Ed awakens with a jolt of fear, and when he casts around their bed is empty, nothing but rumpled sheets left to indicate where his brother had been lying prior. It had been Al’s idea, to push the single beds together and make one big one, having confessed he’d meant it when he said he was sick of sleeping alone. For Al to be missing, now - at this hour, the room blue with moonlight - 

He is instantly sick to his stomach. He - something had come over him, and he had given in. And he had compromised Al - Al, who was his life, whom he would love from a distance for all of ever if it meant he could be kept safe - where could he be, now, how easily could he be hurt in his state? Dazed, he is moving without thought, pulse roaring horribly in his ears, tongue leaden and toxic. Where would he go - perhaps to the bastard, if not then to Riza, he is far too kind to bother Gracia and Elicia at this time - 

“Brother?” Al’s voice is a crystal chime through the blinding fog of anxiety, and he freezes where he is, halfway into some item of clothing or the other. “Brother, where are you going?” 

His baby brother sounds very much like somebody who is trying to sound more awake than they are. A distant part of his brain mumbles that it would be adorable if he wasn’t still seized with panic. When Ed turns slowly, he sees Al, who is standing in the doorway to the bathroom, backlit unevenly by fluorescence. He must be horribly transparent; Al has barely glanced at him before he’s rushing over, a flurry of soothing whispers, and when he closes his eyes and breathes in it’s sharp, cheap hotel soap made blurry by Al’s own smell, warm and comforting.

“Al,” he mumbles, relief robbing him of any other thought. “Al.” And it is a torrent that rushes out of him, babbling like a child who has thought himself abandoned in the aisles of the grocery store. “Al, Al, Al, Al, Al,” he prays, sobbing unabashedly, “Can you ever forgive me,” his hands desperate in the fabric of Al’s shirt, ugly choking sobs muffled in his collar, “I can’t lose you. Not again.”

Murmuring comfortingly, Al strokes perfect hands through Ed’s hair, gently detaching him from the shirt he had tried to pull on in his earlier haste, grounding him with soft pecks on his forehead, nose, mouth. “I’m right here,” he reassures, “You’ve done nothing that needs forgiveness.” A coaxing hand presses liquid away from wide afraid eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Ed quiets, Al’s touch slowly prying off delirium’s sticky grasp and leaving him bereft. “I could never leave you,” Al admits softly, touching their foreheads together, “And I know you could never leave me, either.” 

“So,” a thumb brushes over Ed’s cheek, “Come back to bed, okay?” He is heartbreakingly beautiful mere centimeters from Ed’s face, gently worn and clad for sleep in his older brother’s clothes. “I’ll be right here.”

When he pulls, Ed follows.

-

_ (oh, who decides, from way up high?) _

-

Hours later, Ed awakens to a tentative knock sounding on the door. He uncurls slowly from where his nose is buried into Al’s hair, and takes a moment to stretch languidly, admiring the sleek line of Al’s shoulder, his soft bony arms only just beginning to regain any semblance of regular musculature.

The knock sounds again, with a little more force this time. “Mr Elric?” It’s a reedy voice that sounds like it belongs to the teenager who had been helping out behind the front desk. He’d ask what it’s about, but yelling could wake his little brother, and Al looks far too peaceful for him to have the heart to risk that.

Reluctantly, he slowly extracts his arm from where Al is using it as a pillow, pausing to run a hand through smooth bronze locks, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. Then Ed crawls out of the bed, pulling the blanket up, and sets swiftly about gathering some clothes to wear off the ground. 

In impressive time, he’s cracking open the door just long enough to cast half of an annoyed, golden glare out on his unfortunate quarry, who begins to tremble under the weight of that scornful regard.

“Uh, phone call for one Mr Elric, sir,” he stutters out, looking for all the world like he might die if the message didn’t get through. “I, uh, I quote, whichever one, but… um, preferably the shorter one. Phone’s at the rece-”

_ “Who is that bastard calling so fucking miniscule he doesn’t even have a name and can only be identified as the smaller Elric brother?!” _

-

“Aah, Fullmetal, I was beginning to think you’d never pick up.” Mustang’s velvet tones croon through the phone as soon as he takes over the receiver, and Ed has to be reminded by the little Al in his head that he could be subject to military sanction for slamming the phone down on his commanding officer. “Delayed by a bed partner?”

It’s all Ed can do to suppress the instinctive inward hiss of air at how close Mustang has inadvertently come. “Not everyone wakes up at the crack of dawn to lick the military’s heels,” he bites out instead. His fingers are beginning to itch, a little.

“Mm, was that hesitation I sensed?” Mustang muses, and for a dreaded moment there’s silence, the reception lobby suddenly seeming far, far too small. Then there’s a bellowing guffaw through the line. “Wish I could see the look on your face. It wouldn’t be good for Alphonse to witness that kind of thing, would it?”

Ed tries very, very hard to push images of just how first-hand Al had  _ witnessed _ such things out of his mind. “Cut to the point, shitface. What do you want?”

“Do you need someone to show you how it works?” Mustang hums lazily, husky, as if Ed hadn’t said anything. The statement irks more than shocks him; he is just about to start growling when Mustang suddenly switches gear. “Bring your brother in with you tomorrow. We’ll talk then.” Without more, a clack sounds, and the line goes completely silent. Cursing to himself, Ed drops the receiver unceremoniously onto the desk, and shuffles back upstairs.

-

Back in their sanctuary, Ed shucks off his clothes before climbing gratefully back into that warm, welcoming bed. As luck would have it, the motion rouses his little brother, who unfurls with a yawn that sounds a lot like “Brother?”,  _ eep _ ing adorably when Ed falls right into his grabby hands and tumbles them both under the sheets, legs tangling.

“Mm,” Ed mumbles flush against his neck, “Missed you.”

The statement causes Al to wedge open an eye that had been perfectly happy remaining stubbornly shut. “Brother?” he queries, “What happened?”

Ed makes a snuffling noise in reply, creeps callused hands down Al’s bare torso, presses his lips to where Al’s jaw meets his throat. “I wonder,” he muses into Al’s mouth, “...if you’re even more ticklish than you used to be?” The hands that had been toying lazily at the ridge of Al’s hipbones suddenly turn purposeful, digging viciously into his tender sides, skating across with the practiced touch of somebody who spent his entire childhood perfecting an art.

Predictably, Al is forced abruptly into total wakefulness, giggling and shrieking uncontrollably as he tries to kick Ed off or injure him long enough to make him stop. But his new body is no fight for his brother’s battleworn one, and in the end the only respite from laughter comes when Ed figures there are better things to do with their bodies. 

_ - _

_ (the world’s a beast of a burden) _

_ - _

“Brother, couldn’t you have told me this  _ earlier? _ ” Alphonse’s voice is just this edge of exasperated, and it’s clear he’s biting down some greater irritation from the way he’s pitching his voice, almost  _ too _ even, concrete smoothed over footprints. It’s all that there  _ is _ for him to bite on; when they’d woken up Ed had yawned luxuriantly before yelping inelegantly about time and kicking Al out of bed in his haste to get the both of them dressed and out of the door.

His brother doesn’t deign to give him a reply, instead ushering him unceremoniously down a right turn. Alphonse sighs internally. Loathe as he is to admit it out loud, he had wanted - foolishly, in hindsight - to spend more time entangled in Edward, learning his quiet moments by name. “Will you at least tell me where we’re going?” he asks, instead, even though he has a good idea from the path they’ve taken. Some part of him just wants Ed to say it.

“Headquarters,” Ed says, brusquely, and when they hang the next left Central Headquarters is, surely enough, looming large and impressive. Alphonse takes a deep, steadying breath; as many times as they’ve walked these streets, everything looks  _ different _ from a foot lower, feels different when even the wind brushing by sends strange tingles of sensation up his arms and up his neck and through the whipping of his hair in the breeze.

It doesn’t explain much. But there’s something in the line of tension along his brother’s back, the way he’s walking just a little bit too fast for them to be side by side, that causes Alphonse to purse his lips and say no more.

-

“Fullmetal,” Brig. Gen. Mustang is greeting smoothly from behind his large, grand desk, Hawkeye - no, Riza, standing at attention behind him. “Alphonse.”

“S-sir,” Al says, somehow nervous, at the same time Ed bites out “Bastard Colonel,” and from the glint in his eyes it’s clear the mistitle isn’t accidental. His mouth, too, is drawn into a predatory grin, sharp canines fully on display; desperately, Al tries not to think that even now, his brother is a thing of beauty.

Mustang raises one eyebrow in marked acknowledgement of the insult, but for once opts to rise above it. “I wanted to formally extend my congratulations upon the achievement of your personal goal, as your commanding officer.”

He gestures to Riza, who steps forward and extends a hand holding a plain brown envelope, which Ed takes after a moment and only because he trusts the Lieutenant. It’s moderately light, slightly lumpy in his hand. Awkwardly, he slides it into the folds of his cloak with a nod of acknowledgment.

“Thanks,” Ed says reluctantly, then shifts his weight to his other foot. “Is. Is that all?”

Mustang’s expression is unreadable. “No. There is a further matter I would like to discuss with you two - in private.” Rising, he turns to a door off to the side of the room. “Fullmetal, Alphonse.” A pause, and then, “Lieutenant.”

Al tries to catch Ed’s gaze, but his brother is looking stubbornly at anywhere but him. “Yes, sir,” he offers instead, meekly, as they follow Mustang into the room, which Hawkeye bars and stands beside.

“What the Lieutenant handed you was a small advance of your military award, for exemplary service in preventing the outbreak of a civil war,” he begins, businesslike, “But it is also likely you will receive a promotion.” As Ed opens his mouth, Mustang holds up a palm, dismissive. “Discharge is not an option, Fullmetal.”

Ed bristles, but is otherwise uncharacteristically silent, a hunted expression in his eyes. Tentatively, Al moves to touch him, only to recoil when Ed jerks away from his touch. “Brother?”

Mustang continues, ignoring the clear tension. “We speak in private because nothing is as of yet confirmed. And,” his eyes dart briefly to survey Alphonse, “Because other adjustments may have to be made.” His gaze drops, lingers a second too long on Alphonse’s exposed neck, but his expression does not change when he resumes regarding Ed. “Your cooperation, Fullmetal, is appreciated.”

“What if,” Ed is mumbling, softly, eyes not leaving the ground, “What if I’m not a State Alchemist anymore?” and Al can’t take his eyes away from the way Ed’s fist is shaking, almost desperate with some emotion that looks like but isn’t anger. “What… what would you have me do?”

Mustang blinks. “Discharge is not an -” he begins to repeat, but then he cuts himself off and his eyes grow wide as the words die in his mouth. He takes a stunned step backwards, biting off the rest of the sentence; Al latches on to this immediately, sharp intelligence fighting desperately against wilful naivete. 

“Brother?” Al takes another step towards Ed, doesn’t dare to touch him with the way his head is bowed and his fist is clenched. “What - what do you mean?” he asks,  _ of course this voice had to be paid for _ , and when he doesn’t get an answer he turns to the Brigadier-General instead, begging the same question of him, voice cracking when there is no reply. “Brother?”

Mustang clears his throat, sounding almost comically officious in the heavy tension of the room. “It appears the two of you have... internal issues to settle,” he declares, eyes darting briefly to meet his Lieutenant’s across the room. His eyebrows lift a meaningful fraction. “I will contact you at a further date. You are dismissed.”

As Riza rises to show them the way out, Edward is dreadfully silent, and Alphonse, at a loss, can only follow.

-

_ (sword in hand, arms so steady) _

-

The walk back is tense, Alphonse struggling to deal with a tumult of emotions - betrayal, dismay, gratefulness, guilt, love - and wanting to just  _ be _ with Ed, to hold him. But Edward is tighter-lipped than he has ever been, drawn in upon himself so small he almost looks like a child, and he moves so quickly down the street that Al nearly loses him more than once.

When they’re back in the room, Alphonse, impulsive, reaches for his brother. He doesn’t expect the stinging pain that follows when Edward lashes out, angry, and slaps his hand away. It’s a sensation he hasn’t felt in a long time, a sharp throb that has him cradling one arm to his chest and biting his lip.

“Save it, Al,” his brother is saying, eyes shadowed, voice rough. “I don’t want your pity.” 

There’s a strange clarity that surges through Alphonse at the words. While he knows - has always known - that Edward believed the guilt for their mistake was his alone, he has never blamed him, and naturally thought his brother should understand the same.

It occurs to him that is a form of hubris, to presume he should dictate how Edward should feel. Perhaps giving something of his own to return Alphonse’s body was the only way Ed could breathe under his yoke; perhaps that is something Alphonse must accept. 

It does ring hollow to think of how - because of him - his brother will never again surge alive with the electricity of transmutation, but he can weep for that later. It is not a sin to grieve loss.

Yet that isn’t the issue right now. “ _ No,  _ Brother!” He can feel tears welling in his eyes, his body unused to the stress. “I’m  _ mad _ at you! You don’t get to - to parade around with your martyr complex and _ ignore my feelings _ just because you  _ think _ you  _ need _ to carry a burd-”

Ed’s head snaps upwards sharply, eyes glinting with a fury that had been dull anger just moments before. “ _ Ignore your feelings _ ?” An arm swings out heavily, slams into the closet door next to him. “When have I ever  _ not _ considered them?”

When Ed retracts his hand, there’s a dent in the wood from his clenched fist. “I did this for you, Al, everything I’ve done has been for you, and all  _ you’ve _ fucking done is  _ guilt _ me for putting you back. Do you honestly think I  _ wanted  _ to be like this?” Al is unable to reply, frozen afraid at the sight of Ed more livid than he has ever seen him.

“ _ It was the only way, dammit _ !” He’s rigid lines, now, cutting the air between them so thinly it’s become hard to breathe. The words are acid, eating into the walls. “It was the only way not to lose you.”

“And you’ve never even - You’ve never even said -” He pauses, suddenly, drawing a deep, laboured breath and squeezing his eyes shut as he speaks, hardly more than a whisper. It’s as if all the fight has bled out of him. “You’ve never even said thank you, not once.”

He opens his eyes, slowly, and when he speaks his voice is hoarse. “I know. You don’t owe me anything, Al. But it just - I just…!”

“...I said I loved you,” Alphonse mumbles numbly, stricken; he hadn’t realised. “I.. I know it’s not -”

“It’s not the same.” For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of their breathing. “I chose it, and so I chose the consequences, but I still. I dream about alchemy all the time, Al.” His voice is heavy with despair, and under that, a longing. 

“It’s nothing compared to you. I’d do it again. Over, and over, and over, every time. I just… you’re a part of me, but it was, too.” He finally looks up, eyes afraid. “So. To hear you say that -”

“Don’t be daft, Brother.” Alphonse’s tone is an attempt at levity, and he’s taken a tentative step towards Ed, establishing shaky eye contact. “I know. I’ve known you for so long, so I  _ know _ .” Another step, and his voice is soft. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry it turned out that way. What I meant to say was… you never tell me anything nowadays, and.. it hurts.”

Ed’s looking at him a bit more intently now, warily, golden brows knitted together in some confusion. Immediately some of the weight eases off Al’s chest; Edward’s features were not made to be burdened with sadness. “You just run off making decisions for  _ both _ of us, like I can’t help you with it or like I don’t need to know what’s happening, and…” He closes a bit more of the distance, willing his brother to understand. 

“I’m your little brother, and always will be, but that doesn’t mean you have to protect me from everything,” he whispers, lifting one hand to wipe at his own tear-stained cheek. Feebly, and eyes watery, he adds, “I don’t need a-another parent to fail.” It’s a poor joke, at best. Ed’s gaze is suddenly hardening, and for the briefest moment Alphonse’s tired soul is contemplating the worst before suddenly he has an armful of warm, soft, obstinate Elric.

“ _ Al _ ,” Ed’s speech, though garbled against his shoulder, is soaked in emotion, but Al cuts him off, stroking his hair tenderly, tightening his grip around the smaller boy’s waist. 

“Brother. Thank you.” It’s a prayer murmured into a crown of gold; “I’m sorry, I thought you knew.” His brother is a steadying presence pressed into his chest, and when he breathes in he thinks about how  _ incredible _ it is that he can feel the soft rise and fall of Ed’s ribs against his own, the gentle weight of arms resting on his lower back. “Thank you - for loving me enough. For doing all of that for me. For,” and he can’t stop talking, “For loving me far too much.”

Ed snuffles deeper into his chest, and for the first time Al realises there’s a damp spot on his shirt. “Don’t say that,” and he lets Al gently tip his head upwards to place chaste kisses on his eyelids. When he opens his eyes they’re an honest liquid gold. “You’re the one who loved me this much, first.” 

Tiptoeing gently, he presses their noses together for an instant. Al laughs quietly as he’s forced to find support against the nearby closet to prevent them both from falling, and nuzzles back. 

Coming back down, Ed’s gaze shutters briefly and he licks his lips, a sure nervous tell. “I,” he starts. “I’m... s-sorry, too. For lashing out just now, and for… babying you.” Instantly, his face colours, and Al’s heart warms infinitely at how his brother - wonderful, stubborn, honest, brave - pushes on in spite of it. 

“It’s hard to stop thinking that you’ve. Suffered too much.” At the look on Al’s face, he harrumphs. “I know, I know. I’ll cut it out, or. Uh. I’ll try. You have my express permission to kick my ass if I mess up, okay?” 

“Now that we’re done with that…” Hopefully, he peers up, toeing Al’s feet apart to stand between them. Like this, the difference in their heights is less obvious. “Can we kiss and make up now?”

It’s a long way from resolution, but for now, it’s as good as they’ll get. “Of course,” Alphonse promises, tender, and leans down to do just that.

-

_ (dancing on tiptoes, my own secret ceremonials) _

-

Their house just off the heart of Central is cosy, if moderately small. The front door opens onto a living room and dining area with a plush couch and large, welcoming hearth; tucked behind that are stairs leading to the second floor, and to the right is the kitchen where much food has burned to waste because of distracting hands.

It’s in this very same kitchen that Ed is right now brooding at the table, watching the way Alphonse’s hair, burnished gold in sunlight, lights a comforting iridescent in the fading fire of dusk. It’s longer than ever, now, and Al wears it in a loose braid like Ed tied for him that one time, like Ed has untied countless times after. 

“Brother, stop sulking,” Al says, patiently, eyes not moving from where he’s dicing carrots for stew. “You’re not allowed near anything in the kitchen until you remember  _ both _ your hands are biodegradable now.”

Ed would quip that six months is plenty enough time for him to get used to his new old limb, and that Al certainly doesn’t seem to think he’s unfamiliar with his hands when they’re on him, but for once he elects to remain silent, too distracted by long dark lashes sweeping down to touch the edge of lightly freckled cheeks. 

“Or is this about the mission I declined?” Al continues leisurely, when Ed fails to respond. “We  _ agreed _ that we’d refuse to go in unless they gave us better intel. If it doesn’t involve chimeras, and if there’s a risk of being separated, we’re under no obligation to accept, you know that.” 

The carrots go into the pot, and Al’s busy hands are immediately occupied with peeling a potato. Ed gazes, transfixed, at the way those perfectly formed hands deftly manoeuvre the knife around the unwieldy root, its skin coming off neatly in a hypnotic spiral. He can’t see them, from here, but he knows the way Al’s veins show just slightly on the inside of his wrists, how mouthing at them makes him breathless. In those moments he is so vulnerable, and so, so beautiful.

Abruptly, Ed stands up, and when Al turns to look at him, surprised, he reaches for the knife and sets it down, moving to close in on Al’s space as one arm wraps around his waist. 

“Brother, how many times have I told you  _ not when I’m cook _ -” Ed’s nose is gently bumping his lips as his older brother shushes him, links their hands together, fingers crossing in a precise fit.

“Shh, the carrots need to stew a little anyway. I just wanna look at you.” And it’s true, Ed thinks to himself, chest swelling with something indescribable as he takes in his little brother’s soft  _ oh _ of pleased surprise, the way his cheeks are colouring a ruddy red like the apples of the tree by their favourite lake in Risembool. 

Alphonse’s eyes are so much browner, infinitely more honest than his own, and when Ed lets go of his hands to cup his face his hair is soft and his skin is warm and he is all Ed has ever wanted. 

“Brother?” he says softly, as if afraid to disrupt the moment. “What’s gotten into you?” His eyelids fall to half-mast as his own hands come to thumb the sharpest point of Ed’s jaw, rest steady against his lower back.

Thinking he could watch the soft, sure line of Al’s shy smile forever, Ed lets out a  _ snrk _ and grins, the Fullmetal trademark. “Nothing,” he confesses, going up on the balls of his feet as he touches the entire lengths of their bodies together, supporting his hands on the smooth juts of Al’s hips. “I love you, that’s all.” 

He’s whispered this a breath from Alphonse’s lips, so his eyes are open to see the quiet joy that steals across his baby brother’s features when he says it. Then Al is snorting almost meanly, leaning in to close the distance while walking them both toward the nearest wall. “You closet sap,” he teases, between kisses. “I love you, too.” 

“I know,” Ed says, smugly, and Al, wrought with love and a long-suffering sense of forgiveness, decides to let it slide.

-

_ (your heart is the only place that I call home.) _

 

**Author's Note:**

> lyric attribution: florence and the machine all the way - blease check out the relevant songs, they are so, so apt for this pairing, and made my heart ache with longing.  
> -  
> if u wanna b friends: hmu on [twitter](http://twitter.com/kyanisama)


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